18. Lilly
CHAPTER 18
LILLY
A mistake?
How dare he say that kissing me was a mistake? He wasn’t the one kissing his nemesis. He wasn’t the one kissing a man who seems to already have a girlfriend… or even a wife.
I dive angrily into my bed and smack the pillow, wishing it were his face.
The thing that pisses me off the most is the fact that the kiss was off-the-charts amazing.
The best I’ve ever had.
Better than I could imagine a kiss ever being.
Great. Now I’m even hornier.
Oh well, there’s no avoiding it. Time to angrily masturbate myself to sleep.
When I come to the kitchen for breakfast, luck isn’t on my side. Bruce—whom I was hoping to avoid—is here, and he’s just starting on his Eggs Benedict.
“Morning,” he says. “I’m glad you’re here. I want to discuss your plans for the day.”
Is that how he wants to play it? Pretend that nothing happened?
Fine. I’m glad, actually. The last thing I want is to relive that humiliation.
“Morning,” I say with fake cheerfulness. “Colossus and I will work on ‘sit.’”
Upon hearing his name, Colossus leaves his place by Bruce’s feet and runs over to me, tail wagging.
“Hi,” I croon. “You miss me?”
As if in answer, Colossus plops on his back, exposing how lacking his belly is of fur.
Please, please, I want a belly rub. And a cookie. Maybe together?
Crouching, I gladly perform my belly-related duties, then grab my own Eggs Benedict and occupy a chair near Bruce.
“We’re also going to walk,” I continue. “And I’m going to teach him how to take a treat out of my hand politely.”
Bruce nods approvingly, and I tell him what else I’m planning for today, time permitting.
As I talk, I watch Bruce for signs that my eating is bothering him, but he seems fine. Why does this make me feel special—especially after last night’s fiasco?
“Are you a socialist?” Bruce suddenly asks.
I nearly choke on my next bite. “A socialist?”
He points at me with his fork. “A socialist is someone who thinks that things like production and distribution should be handled by the government rather than private corporations.”
“I know what it is,” I grit out.
“So you admit you are one?” he demands. “Don’t worry. It won’t disqualify you from working with Colossus.”
I glance at the dog with a smirk. “Are you sure? What if I teach him ‘hardworking Chihuahuas of the world, unite!’?”
“Now you’re thinking communist,” he says. “Tell me you aren’t one of those.”
“I don’t think I am.” I angrily cut my meal into little pieces. “I do think people like you have too much money.”
He rolls his eyes. “That’s called jealous-ism.”
He thinks this is a joking matter? Not fully meaning to, I blurt out, “If someone falls on hard times, I think it’s unfair for your bank to take their home. If that makes me a socialist, so be it.”
“That is a shitty scenario,” he says solemnly. “Which is why, at my bank, I’ve implemented a deferment program for qualified people, as well as forbearance.”
“A what?” And why didn’t my parents know about it?
“Forbearance is when someone is given some time without having to pay the mortgage, but the interest accrues. Deferment is similar, but interest free.”
“Still.” I fork some egg and bring it to my mouth. “Even your angel of a bank would eventually kick them out.” As I chew, I mentally dare him to deny this.
He shrugs. “It’s unfortunate, but it’s not like we have much choice. If people didn’t pay their mortgages, we’d go out of business—and how would new people get mortgages then?”
“And there you have it,” I say. “Money is all that matters, not people’s lives.”
He exhales a frustrated breath. “Banks aren’t putting guns to people’s heads to force them to buy a house. There’s always renting, but folks want to own because they hope that the price of their home will grow—as in, they too want to make money in some distant future.”
I’m so upset I forget to chew the next bite carefully, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Is it wrong to want financial security when you’re older?” I demand.
“Not at all. But guess what? You need banks for?—”
Someone drops a fork, loudly.
It’s Bob, the chef. He’s staring at me eating with a horrified expression.
“I think that’s my cue to leave,” I say to no one in particular.
Shoving the rest of my egg into my mouth, I tempt Colossus with a cookie crumb to go for a walk.
Behind me, I hear Bruce explain to Bob that I’m the exception to his “eat alone rule”—which triggers that stupid feeling of specialness. But by the time I have the mohawk contraption on my head, I don’t feel special anymore, at least not the version of that word without sarcastic quotes around it.
As soon as we’re outside, Colossus starts sniffing a nearby bush, then lifts his leg.
“Good boy,” I say, but before I can give him a treat, he lifts his leg again, a couple of inches to the left from the first time. As soon as he is done, he sniffs his work and goes one more time.
“Wow,” I say with a grin. “You really wanted to mark that.”
The puppy looks up at me, head cocked.
Well, duh. I’m making a masterpiece out of pee—or as art critics shall call it: a masterpees.
I give him a treat for the good work, then walk down the road… only to halt in my tracks because an attractive woman dressed in business attire is walking toward us—in high heels, on gravel.
What the hell? This is a private estate, so what is she doing here? Is this another romantic interest of Bruce’s?
“Hello,” I say when we’re near enough not to have to shout, even if shouting at her is a tempting proposition.
“Hi,” she says cheerfully. “You must be Lilly.”
“That’s me,” I say. “Who are you?”
“I’m Gertrude,” she says. “I work for Mr. Roxford.” She looks at Colossus. “He said the dog needs to learn to be social, and that I’d be the first ‘stranger’ the little guy is to meet.”
Huh. “You’re a banker?”
“I am, but anything for Mr. Roxford.”
As in, when he says, “Jump,” she jumps. Very interesting.
“Here.” I toss her a cookie. “When we get close to you, give him that, speak as you would to a baby, and don’t make sudden moves.”
We keep walking.
As we get closer to the woman, Colossus becomes more hesitant—until he spots the cookie in her hands. Now he seems torn. He wants the treat, but it’s being held by a stranger.
“Go on,” I say to him soothingly. “She’s a nice lady.” Probably.
“Hi, little guy,” she coos. “Come have some of this.” She waves the cookie.
Decision seemingly made, Colossus bravely lifts his chin and takes a determined step toward the woman. Then another.
“Here.” She hands him a piece of the treat.
Wagging his tail, he accepts the offer.
She does it again and tries to pet him—and he lets her.
Wow. He’s a quick learner. By the time the cookie is almost gone, he seems to have accepted the woman as his new BFF.
“Thank you,” I say when I deem the lesson complete. “I’ll make sure Bruce knows you did a great job here.”
She beams at the puppy, then at me before heading over to a car parked nearby.
As we resume the walk, I see another car pull over not far away, and this time, a man steps out of it.
Another banker?
Yep.
This guy is chattier than the woman was, so I learn what Bruce has done—he’s recruited every local branch of his bank into the puppy socialization project.
“So, yeah,” the man says in conclusion. “The money is great, this dog is adorable, and it’s nice to have a chance to get noticed by the big boss.”
I provide the guy with the treat and the same instructions I gave the woman, which leads to the encounter going a bit smoother this time.
Not surprisingly, another car pulls up as soon as we’re done. The man in this one is wearing big sunglasses and—as it turns out—has a prosthetic arm.
This encounter goes even better, even though I only give this man a portion of the treat.
I’m beginning to think that Colossus is actually a friendly dog. He just needed to learn that about himself.
The next person is an older lady with dandelion-like blue hair. The one after that is a teenage boy with cornrows. With less and less cookie each time, Colossus makes friends with them, and with the people who come after.
I have to grudgingly give Bruce’s bank some credit—there is a great diversity of people working there… at least in the local branches.
“Ready to go back?” I ask the pup when it seems like there’s no more people available.
He looks longingly into the distance. I think he’s learned an accidental lesson today—fun things can happen on a walk. Well, besides sniffing and creating his masterpeeses.
As we turn, there’s another surprise.
Prudence is walking toward us, and behind her, the rest of Bruce’s household staff.
“We heard you’re training him to be friendlier,” Prudence says shyly. “Any chance we can also participate?”
“Of course.” I toss her a quarter of a cookie. “Give him that and see what happens.”
The bribe—I mean, treat—works like a charm, and Colossus quickly accepts Prudence as a friend, with Bob and Johnny after that.
“Mr. Roxford will be very pleased,” Johnny says after he makes friends with the dog.
“Why?” I ask.
“No one at the local branches has a mustache,” Johnny says as he twirls his pride and joy. “He said that it was my responsibility to represent the whole community.”
Yeah. Now, if Colossus were to meet a dictator with a mustache—which most of them have—he would be cool as a cucumber. He’d also be fine with being stroked by a mustachioed villain on the set of a Bond movie called The Chihuahua Who Loved Me .
Grinning, I thank Johnny and lure Colossus back into the garage with my last piece of cookie.
As I take off my goofy helmet, I vow to never show my face at the local branch of Bruce’s bank—though there isn’t much I can do to make Prudence and the rest forget about my shame.
As usual, Colossus runs to locate Bruce once we enter the mansion, but when he notices that I’m walking to the kitchen, he pivots and goes with me.
“How are you not full?” I ask him. “At this point, with all those treats, you’re probably skipping lunch.”
Colossus brings his pointy ears together on the top of his head.
Full? I think that sensation is a myth, like Chupacabras, the Loch Ness Monster, or edible sugar-free cookies.
I check the fridge for something with fewer calories that I can use for further training and stumble upon the freshest-looking cucumbers I’ve ever seen.
Hmm. Bruce mentioned that Colossus eats cucumbers, and if that’s true, the dog will get some much-needed post-walk hydration, along with a treat.
Roach wouldn’t have eaten cucumbers so I’m a little skeptical about Bruce’s assertion.
Cutting a small piece, I hand it to the dog.
Wow. He nearly bites off my finger in excitement as he snatches the cucumber. Making audible noises signaling deep satisfaction, Colossus devours the cucumber like a cannibal who got a hold of Bruce’s (presumably) delicious liver.
“You like that, huh?” I ask Colossus.
Without my prompting, he plops his butt on the floor and looks me right in the eyes—a perfect execution of ‘sit.’
Do I not want to sniff the big pile that a bear makes when he poops in the woods?
I give him another piece of cucumber and say the word ‘sit,’ hoping he will associate what he naturally did with the command.
He devours the cucumber with the same enthusiasm.
I cut another piece and hold it in front of his nose, then slightly above it—which causes canines to naturally sit. At the same time, I also say the command.
Yes!
He sits. I praise him both verbally and with a gift of vegetable—or fruit, if you’re a botanical stickler.
I repeat the whole exercise.
He sits again.
And again.
“Wow,” I say on his fifth successful attempt. “You’re a quick learner.”
He looks pointedly at the counter—where the rest of the cucumber is—then at me.
Is the moon not made of cheese? Is the sun not a big cookie right out of the oven?
Grinning, I cut up the rest of the cucumber, and we rehearse ‘sit’ some more—using just the word this time.
“I think you got it,” I say when I have the last tiny piece of the treat left.
“Got what?” Bruce asks, startling me.
How did a man that big sneak up on me so stealthily? Do they teach ninjitsu at billionaire school?
“He’s learned ‘sit,’” I explain.
Colossus—who stood up to greet Bruce—plops his furry butt back on the floor, then looks at my reaction dutifully.
I give him the last of the cucumber, then look up in time to see Bruce smiling—and it’s as startling as always. “I had a feeling he was a smart dog.”
He did? “We met some of your people,” I say, shifting from foot to foot. “And he befriended them all.”
Bruce crouches in front of the puppy. “You did? Good boy.”
Colossus lifts his little chin and wags his tail for all he’s worth. To my shock, Bruce starts stroking his charge under said chin.
The puppy seems to enjoy the pets even more than food—and I’m left wondering if I could’ve been wrong about Bruce’s feelings toward Colossus.
As inconceivable as it might seem, there’s a chance this seemingly heartless man secretly loves this dog.